"I don’t want to leave you," said her mother. She could imagine how hideous would be Angelica’s loneliness.
"You better!"
"Why? What are you going to do?"
Angelica held up her tiny box.
"Heroin," she said. "I got it off a feller I know. I don’t want to think about anything to-night."
For an instant the small figure in the long night-dress wavered; then, with a pitiful scream, she ran out of the room and cast herself on her bed.
"It’s too much, God!" she cried. "I can’t bear any more. Take me to-night, oh, merciful God!"
III
Mrs. Kennedy listened in vain all through the night. From time to time she dozed, to wake with a start of fright. She had no knowledge of drugs, only horrible superstitions. She expected Angelica to be changed in some way beyond recognition. Would she be violent—fight and struggle with her? Would she kill herself—set the house on fire?
At dawn she waked from a brief nap, resentful to find herself still alive. Sick with apprehension, weary beyond all measure, she went into the kitchen, to see what had become of her child.